


It Feels Wonderful Here With you

by Patchwork_Author



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchwork_Author/pseuds/Patchwork_Author
Summary: Bobbi crashes Mack's Thanksgiving, and the food isn't the only thing that's simmering. A fluffy, ever-so-slightly steamy step forward in Mack and Bobbi's relationship, thanks to good food, good friends, and the close quarters in Mack's apartment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has no place in the timeline. I started writing it last year?? It exists in its own little universe, I guess.

Bobbi hasn’t had a regular Thanksgiving since…well, for longer than she can remember, really. Nothing with Lance was ever normal, and it wasn’t like S.H.I.E.L.D gave off for holidays. Worse still was when she was undercover and had a perfectly ‘normal’ Thanksgiving, and knew the whole damn thing was fake.

She wants someone to commiserate with, but all of the others are either people she’s broken up with (see: Lance), people who grew up without holidays (See: Skye), or Brits who couldn’t give a damn about Thanksgiving (read: Fitz and Simmons). That last one isn’t really fair because Simmons would go all gung-ho about Thanksgiving if she could, and Fitz is in love with the idea of the Holiday, since it centers around food. But they don’t, well, they don’t _miss_ it, the way she does.

May isn’t open enough for Bobbi to figure out how she feels, and Coulson says something about how holidays were hardly the same after his dad died, and Bobbi doesn’t really feel like prying.

When Thanksgiving does come, they all scatter to the winds, preferring to be with family, if they have it, or alone instead of all pretending that it’s fine. Bobbi’s on an empty, grey base, with the Koenigs’ offering her a spot at their Thanksgiving. She declines. The only other person on base is Lance, and she really can’t be around him right now.

Instead, she grabs a six-pack from the fridge and a bike and helmet and roars down the streets until she finds what she’s looking for.

It’s not hard to miss, though the building is smaller than the skyscrapers in the city. She takes the elevator to the fourth floor, knocks, and prays to god he hasn’t left town to be with family.

“Bobbi. Thought you were on base?” Mack asks, stepping aside.

“I was. But so is Hunter, and I really didn’t feel like getting shit on all Thanksgiving,” she shrugs.

Mack nods.

Mack’s apartment is very familiar. He’s not there often, and it’s only such a coincidence that it’s so close to the base Coulson picked, but Bobbi’s been coming here for years. They used to hang out here after work sometimes. After a shitty mission, or before a shitty mission.

She’d crash here on nights they got too drunk.

Or nights she and Hunter fought too hard.

Hell, this was where she came when the divorce was finalized and she didn’t have a mission waiting to whisk her away.  
“I was just whipping up some dinner, want some?”

Bobbi nods. “Thanks. I brought beer, so it’s an even trade,” she says, sliding the six-pack across the counter too him.

Mack looks over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. “That looks like my favorite IPA, not yours.”

Bobbi shrugs innocently, plopping down on the couch as he gets to work. “It’s my thank-you, for letting me crash your Thanksgiving.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Thought I told you, years ago, that you’re always welcome here.”

Mack’s in the middle of pulling out pots and pans, and Bobbi’s watching the line of his arms. She didn’t have enough time to sit there and count all the evenings she’d been in that exact place on the couch, perfectly content to drink in Mack’s presence, and appearance.

“I know, I know.” Bobbi smiles, even though Mack can’t see her. “You’re not whipping up a whole Thanksgiving dinner, right?”

He laughs. That low rumble of a laugh that she can’t help but feel deeply. “No such luck, maybe next year, you’ll give me some warning and we can have a mini one.”

Bobbi’s smile fades, but not because she’s sad. It’s just…“Do you really think we’re gonna be here next year?”

Mack stops stirring, turns to look at her. “I don’t see why not. Yeah, spies move around a lot, but we’re working at the headquarters or whatever. Besides, we don’t have to be exactly here to enjoy Thanksgiving.”

It’s still implied he thinks that wherever they’ll be, it’ll apparently be somewhere together, and Bobbi doesn’t want to look into why that makes her so relieved. And happy.

She gets up, grabs a beer, pops the top off. She takes a sip before handing it to Mack, who rolls his eyes but smiles, and then she gets her own.

He’s making pasta in one pot, working on a light sauce in a pan on a different burner. Just the prospect of home-cooked food is making her impatient. In a good way.

“Let me help.”

“I’m good.”

“Mack, you shouldn’t have to do this by yourself,” she says, making for a spoon, but Mack grabs her wrist, fixes her with an even look, even though he’s smiling. He’s holding her gently, but firmly.

“I got this.”

She twists to get out of his reach, but he just grabs her other wrist, and they’re locked together.

“Mack, just let me help.”

He shakes his head. “Barbara, just let me take care of this.”

She narrows her eyes. “Fine. _Alphonso_.”

Mack’s face changes, but he doesn’t look annoyed, per say, at her childish remark. She doesn’t think either of them realize they’re moving in until their lips are _so close_ to touching…and then there’s a hiss from the saucepan and Mack releases her, quickly turning off the heat and pushing the contents around.

Bobbi grabs her beer and makes her way back to the couch, feeling a little lightheaded.

It’s been a long time since she’s felt this way. Between covers and Hunter, she had headaches more than anything else.

She and Mack have a lot of history. A long friendship, imbued with flirting and appreciating that they were both attractive adults. But Bobbi had never been friends with someone first. There must’ve been a reason for that.

So they ignore it. Bobbi flicks through one of the books Mack’s only gotten halfway through, and he stirs the sauce. She focuses on the words so she can’t linger on him.

Its only minutes, but it feels like hours before Mack sets two plates down on the table and Bobbi gets up, joining him. Before they sit, she gets them both new bottles and they do a small cheers.

“To thanksgiving,” she says.

“To us.”

Bobbi smiles, and takes a sip, noting how he keeps his gaze on her the whole time. Then she sits, twirling her fork in the pasta and taking a bite before groaning in happiness.

“Mack, this is amazing. I miss home-cooked meals,” she said.

“Yeah, the kitchen on base is, uh, lacking,” he says, which is a gross understatement.

Bobbi isn’t a terrible cook, she knows enough to survive. But she was not cut out to be any kind of homemaker, and she’s okay with that. Hunter is _disastrous_. He can turn a frozen pizza into a four-alarm fire. He has one soup he can whip together and that is _it_.

Bobbi quickly drops that train of thought, because she really, really didn’t want to dwell on Hunter when she didn’t have to.

“So what are you thankful for?” she asks drily, meaning it as a joke.

Mack looks thoughtful, though, reaching for his bottle. “I’m thankful we’re all alive. Good health, all that. Thankful that we have such a good team, even if half of them are batshit crazy,” he says.

Bobbi laughs, dipping her head. She has to agree with that. She loves their team. She’s surprised he took her little joke seriously – normally she was the idealist of the two of them. But Mack was a bit of a sap himself, a big ol’ teddy bear with a heart of gold.

Mack gets up and clears their plates before Bobbi can argue, and then he’s pulling something out of the oven and returning to the table with two forks and…

“A pie? When did you have time to bake a pie? Where did you learn to bake a pie?”

“I have talents,” Mack says, half-offended. “I don’t do Thanksgiving without a pumpkin pie. Now take a fork and dig in.”

He sets a can of whipped cream on the table before sitting down and Bobbi sticks her fork into the pie, carving out a bite. She holds it up towards Mack, cocking an eyebrow.

“You first, chef.”

Mack gives her a little half-grin that makes her body hum and does as told, taking the bite. He nods and then Bobbi digs in for herself, piling whipped cream onto the next bite she digs out as Mack also digs in. Just digging into the whole pie is messy and not pretty, but it’s delicious and Bobbi loves it.

“ _Mmm._ Cook for me more, will you? You’ve been holding out on me.”

Mack laughs and reaches across the table, cupping her face in one hand as his thumb brushes across the bottom of her lip. “Maybe if you don’t get whipped cream all over yourself next time. You’re an animal.”

Bobbi grins and continues to eat. When they’re done – no, they don’t finish the whole pie – Mack is covering the pie plate with tinfoil and Bobbi sees her window of opportunity.  
She moves to the sink, starting to wash the dishes from dinner. She gets through one before she feels Mack behind her.

“Bobbi.”

She doesn’t stop, and he gets closer, his chest up against her back, one arm snaking under hers to turn off the faucet. She sets the plate down and Mack’s hands move to rest on her upper arms ever so gently, stilling her. He’s so close that she can feel his breath tickling the back of her neck, the warmth of his body mingling with hers.

“Mack,” she says, and turns around so she’s facing him, pinned against the counter. His hands are still on her arms. “I was only helping,” she says innocently.

“Barbara-”

“Alphonso.”

And here they are again, pressed up against each other, pressed against his counter, a hairs width away from each other.

“You wanna know what I’m thankful for?” she asks.

“Hm?” Mack asks, not taking his eyes off of her.

“Alcohol, batons, and guns, mostly,” she says, “And you.” Which is probably the cheesiest thing that has ever come out of Bobbi Morse’s mouth – that’s not Star Wars related – but the heat is coming off of them in waves and her hand is twisted in the fabric of his shirt by his abdomen and her one of her legs is settled between his and it doesn’t _feel_ cheesy.

“This,” Mack says, “Is a really dumb idea.”

“Would you rather do the dishes?”

“Hell no.”

Bobbi smiles at that, big and bright and real, reaching up to rest her arms around his shoulders. His hands slide up her arms as she moves, trailing up to her shoulders, back over her shoulder blades. The motion causes goosebumps to break out over her skin. They each pull the other closer at the same time.

Mack’s slow on their first kiss, no matter how much Bobbi tries to speed him up, seizing his lips again and again. When she finally stops pushing, he takes initiative, and when he licks into her mouth, Bobbi feels heat unfurl from her stomach out toward every extremity.

She has never felt this way before.

“Why haven’t we done this before?” she asks, breathless, as he kisses down the column of her throat and _shit_.

“Boundaries. Friendship. Partnership. You were a married woman for a while there,” he mumbles against her skin which feels too good for her to even fully process what he’s saying.

She slides a hand up his neck towards his jaw, gently guiding him back up she can look in his eyes. His hands squeeze her hips and she can’t help the smile that twitches onto her lip.

“Have any Christmas plans?” she asks, and Mack’s answering laugh is more than enough for her, and then he’s turning them around, his lips back on hers as he leads her towards his bedroom.

\--

They wake up the next morning tangled in each other and Mack’s sheets. Neither of their phones are going off, a rare miracle, and Mack’s hand is gently running up and down her back.

“Hi.”

“Morning,” Mack replies. “Pie for breakfast?”

“Hell yeah,” Bobbi says, “This should be a tradition.”

“The orgasms too?”

Bobbi tilts her head back to look at him, the corners of her mouth twitching with a small smirk. “I was hoping that would be more than just a once a year thing,” she says with a quirk of her brow.

Mack laughs and brushes her hair out of her face before leaning over to kiss her. Bobbi responds for a minute before pulling away, sliding one leg over him and rolling so she’s sitting on top of him.

She runs one hand through her tousled, hair, smiling down at him. “Next year, I want a turkey and stuffing.”

Mack skims his hands up her thighs to settle on her hips. “Deal.” Then he leans up to kiss her. “Happy Thanksgiving, Bobbi.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mack.”


End file.
